


Will He Speak Soft Words Unto Thee?

by stilitana



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Biblical References, Character Study, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: In which Lt John Irving takes upon himself the salvation of Hickey's soul.(Hickey caught Gibson's arm and held him fast. “Listen,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Leave Irving to me.”Gibson just stared with his dull, sorrowful eyes. “And what can you do about him?”“You doubt me?”“You overextend yourself—let’s let a good thing end on good terms, and not go asking to be punished.”)





	Will He Speak Soft Words Unto Thee?

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with the introspective Hickey fic.  
> This is mostly canon-compliant; I'm not changing any major events, merely filling in scenes to further explore the Hickey and Irving dynamic.
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think, I always welcome critique. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> "Canst thou draw out Leviathan with an hook? or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down?  
> Canst thou put an hook into his nose? or bore his jaw through with a thorn?  
> Will he make many supplications unto thee? will he speak soft words unto thee?"  
> (Job 41:1-3)

I

            In the beginning you would not believe his self-restraint; when he obtained the object of his desire, when the long lean back was pressed beneath him, panting, trembling, he would marvel at his own past patience, and hardly recognize it as his own, and the knowledge of his own incredible cunning and indominable will would make him shudder and gasp.

            But first the man called Hickey was cautious in courting his lover. He put hooks in the water, one by one; a certain heavy glance across the deck, a brief pressing of hands when passing the bowl at suppertime, brushing back to front in the cramped lower deck to shuffle past, his hand giving the faintest phantom’s touch to Gibson’s hip as he went by, to steady him and keep him from startling, and to slide in his hooks. When he dared glance back, he found unabashed longing on Gibson’s face, and was nearly startled—now there was a man without a mask, just an open face, so open the expression was almost bloody! He hid nothing.

            It was too much to bear; he scuttled down the hall with his rattled heart, to go compose himself among the vermin in the lower decks. So he need not have been so careful, as it turned out—such seduction wasn’t necessary…however, he soon learned it was much appreciated, which meant that it was essential, so he continued courting long after the time for it, because his quarry, to Hickey’s surprise and delight, liked to be coddled, and petted, and flattered—it was plain Gibson had been missing it. He must’ve had it before, that is to say affection, but a long time ago, maybe only when he was very young. He must have had it before or else the longing wouldn’t have been bearable…this Hickey knew, because he never had, and so he was sometimes overcome by a glance or touch that was too tender, and then would have to bite or hold his partner too tightly, draw out blood and bruises to negate the soft sighing and sweet nothings.

            Anything that looked at him too sweetly made his blood boil. Pity made him feel savage.

            Little by little, he did soften towards Gibson, because the man was simple-hearted, and now tangled helplessly, entirely devoted—his will had bent easily, and then succumbed.

            Some people, Hickey thought, were like that—that is, they could be subjugated, and liked to be subjugated. Even if they claimed not to, for dignity’ sake, that was rubbish—they became perfectly content as soon as they’d handed their will over, they stopped fussing, they knew bliss. Most people were like that—but they didn’t know it, and couldn’t admit it, so there would be no paradise on Earth without a very bloody restructuring. Only maybe one in ten people actually had to suffer…those who retained their will and rights, those who lorded over the rest, who would labor, yes, but not as they did now, not to death, and they would want for nothing…

            Such were some of his notions, at any rate—but he tried not to indulge in thoughts like that, which were ultimately of no use to him. Better to think more practically—better to know, for instance, that pressing his lips, even very lightly and quickly, against the back of Gibson’s neck after sex would make the other man smile, an unguarded, dangerous smile that made him look like a fool, which he always tried to hide by hanging his head or smothering his face in the crook of his arm, but which Hickey caught nonetheless—and he would seem to glow a little all the rest of the day, would be dreamy and even smug, self-satisfied, and once had even winked at Hickey from across the room at suppertime, as though they were co-conspirators, and knew something nobody else did…

            Well, there was an idea, anyway.

 

II

            Hickey’s natural speech was coarse, but he'd learned to curb his tongue by the time he was a stowaway aboard Terror. He turned his penchant for lies to good account, and flattered Gibson senseless.

            “You're wasted as a steward,” he muttered, the rough floorboards scratching up his knees even through the fabric of his pants which were bunched around them. One of Gibson’s freckled shoulders was bared where he’d earlier yanked the collar out of shape to have a go at the man’s neck, to mouth along it until he found the beating pulse where the blood ran hot and close, and when he sucked on the skin above the vein, he could all but taste blood against the back of his throat.

            Gibson hardly ever replied when he spoke during their relations. If he did, it came out shaky and stupid, monosyllabic.

            “When I’m captain, you’ll not do anything, but lie in a bed all the day—I’ll pile the captain’s beds one on top of the other, and no one else’ll get one, ‘cause no one else'll have need for them, and I’ll heap silk onto it. Imagine this on a bed—you’d sink into it.”

            Gibson shuddered and sighed. Hickey himself didn’t get worked up over the things he said—sometimes the sound of them even made him roll his eyes, mid thrust.

            “And—”

            Gibson's reply cut off with a high, sharp little inhalation as Hickey lowered his mouth to the small of his back, where the skin was clammy with a faint beading up of cold sweat and licked a stripe up the recessed valley of his spine.

            “And I could—see you,” he finished, breathily.

            _Idiot, you precious idiot,_ Hickey thought, and made his next thrust punishing, to find and throttle wherever the insipid tenderness came from…but he could not, it lingered, and even somehow grew stronger when he lashed out against it.

            “You wouldn’t like that,” Gibson said.

            “Be quiet,” Hickey hissed, snaking one arm up and around the other man’s chest, inside the shirt, to press him closer. “No—I like it better this way.”

            “You would.”

            His voice was entirely too fond. How could he be so unaware of the danger he’d put himself in, of how everything he did gave him away, and sank the hooks deeper?

            Gibson was his…a sudden possessive impulse surged in Hickey; he wanted the luxury of a locked door, just that one indulgence, so they could risk disrobing and be skin to skin, and then he would fulfill this premonition he had, of being one creature, of the other man as an extra appendage of himself. He would turn himself inside out and consume them both, burrow beneath the skin, wear it like a cloak. Those eyes were his eyes, those hands his hands—his lust was like hunger pangs, he felt it in his belly and in his teeth, he felt it pressed against the back of his eyes and beneath his tongue.

           _I’ll eat you alive,_ he thought feverishly, _and you’ll thank me for it._

            Gibson always sighed at the end; a too-pretty, too-comfortable sigh that set Hickey’s teeth on edge, because didn’t he understand this wasn’t safe, that he was lying beside an imposter, a jackal? But that was only credit to his cunning, he supposed, that or…that or Gibson knew well what he was, and the reason Hickey was so uneasy was that the man saw through him a little too well, and was happily signing himself away regardless…

           _How much do you guess?_ Hickey thought, tugging just a little too hard at Gibson’s curls. _Would you still be here, if you knew all? I think you would…I think you couldn’t help yourself._

            He’d find out—he had ways.

            He imagined himself betraying Gibson—he imagined the ecstasy of treachery, the light of realization surfacing first dully in the other man’s plaintive, gloomy eyes, then burning, imagined his own unmasked sneer, imagined the horror and the resignation as he drove the knife home, revealed as being not what he was, crowned in the full glory of his betrayal, like a terrible false monarch seizing the throne from the rightful heir by crushing out the children and then falling upon the father, who knew well what he’d done, who knew full well—and Gibson haloed by his betrayal, made into the very picture of saintliness, made into more than he would have been otherwise, without Hickey’s double-dealing to martyr him.

            He finished silently, biting his tongue to stifle the horrible animal sound in his throat, and felt lit on fire by his own fantasy.

            Not fantasy—premonition. He knew well the power of his own intuition, and lately had suspected it may be growing into real clairvoyance.

            Sometimes he felt sick, a dizzy spell of lightheadedness would make him stand still a moment…but all that was nothing…this place was changing him, and he would let it, he would surrender to it alone, for the tundra alone was worth submitting to—he felt he’d crawl one day out the black cramped belly of this ship, into the sun, and he would look at the sun for the first time, and it would shine also for the first time upon a new creature.

 

III

            Irving very nearly catches them, and the speed with which he jumps to conclusions must say something about the man’s frame of mind, though Hickey’s in no position to ascertain what exactly just yet, having just barely shucked his pants up over his hips before the Lieutenant came bumbling over. Irving became frightened and wary; his eyes darted between the two of them, and Hickey was amused by how easily his body language betrayed his fear, as if he thought the two of them might attack him. Irving, like most of the people Hickey had met since coming here, didn’t have such a firm hold of himself—he gave himself away with every little gesture, and the best part of all was that he was entirely unaware of it. Hickey had watched him pray in service, and knew all he needed to know to play Irving like a fiddle.

            When he left, Hickey was thoroughly amused, and turned to crack a joke to Gibson, but it died on his tongue when he saw the other man’s pale, grave face.

            “He’s running to inform.”

            “No, I don’t think he will.”

            “Cornelius, we’ll be lashed.”

            Hickey scoffed, denied, explained away the irrational fear—but the fear remained, and with a twist of dread he realized that this just might be enough to destroy them, that for all his willful subservience, Gibson was ultimately too careful with himself, and would sacrifice pleasure if it meant escaping pain.

            Gibson tried to leave without another word, but Hickey couldn’t stand the look of mourning on his face, as though a holy fool like Irving was capable of burying them.

            Hickey caught his arm and held him fast. “Listen,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Leave Irving to me.”

            Gibson just stared with his dull, sorrowful eyes. “And what can you do about him?”

            “You doubt me?”

            “You overextend yourself—let’s let a good thing end on good terms, and not go asking to be punished.”

            Gibson’s submission, so flattering up to a point, now irritated Hickey. It was insulting to take a lover who would turn belly up with his tail between his legs for another, and not because Irving was such a worthy rival, no—just because it was the path of least resistance, and Gibson ran like water down a hill.

            “Think carefully about who you throw your lot in with,” Hickey said, eyes narrowed. “What’s Irving but a busy-body? You know I’ve got some plans, Billy, and you—well, you can’t think about punishment like that, as something to be avoided above all else…someone’s going to lash you, sooner or later, that’s for certain, so why waste fear on Irving?”

            Ah, there was Billy’s pity again, softening his angular face…but it wasn’t going to be enough this time. He gently pulled his arm free of Hickey’s grip.

            “Do you have to fight everything? If you keep slamming your head on a brick wall, you’ll only break one thing, Cornelius—and it won’t be the wall.”

            Hickey stared a moment, and then burst into laughter. “You should write that one down, Billy. By the end of all this you might have a book of phrases.”

            Gibson flushed and glared, then turned, looking very stately all of a sudden, and left without a backwards glance.

            Irritation flared up in Hickey; who was Gibson, to walk away from him without even looking back? But the feeling died down quickly; the hooks were still in after all, he’d be back.

            Still, he couldn’t resist one more remark. “There are worse things than being lashed,” he called after Gibson’s retreating back.

            This earned him a quick over the shoulder glance. The look made something in his chest feel light and fluttering, like a knife spinning end over end through the air.

 

IV

            The captain himself graces Hickey to a drink, and Hickey’s aglow with the memory of his own charade, how completely Crozier swallowed those lies about Limerick—yes, his fellow Irishman indeed…with all that, he forgets about Irving completely, until the man bumbles in and fixes him with a frozen look, as though he’d caught the captain conversing with something feral. The way he looked at Hickey, you'd think he had a pair of horns and a pitchfork, for god's sake...

            (The memory of a woman he’d met in Liverpool burst into his mind and blinded him, the woman from Italy, that Italian swindler with the tangled black hair who’d shown him her hand-painted deck of cards which she used to tell the fortunes of all the riff-raff at the docks, the sailors and drunkards who crawled out of the pubs, the hesitant, shame-faced, giggling nobility in on business from fairer cities, and—he’d been a child, then, she’d shown him the backs of the cards, painted with devils, beings with human and animal parts, and long pointed tongues like red ribbons—that red was so bright, even in memory, that violent candy-apple red. She’d ran quite the racket—she smiled as they spat upon her, their coin heavy in her pockets. Yes, she'd been a beauty...an old crone, they called her, but he knew she'd been a beauty...

            He helped, of course—dirty-faced boy with crowded teeth, spreading the word, leading clients along to her. Of course, he got as many boots to the backside as he did coins pressed into his hand, and she hardly gave him a fair sixty-forty split, but that was better in the long run, learning to get cheated at an early age…he’d never have learned such slight-of-hand otherwise; he’d dip his hands into their pockets if they wouldn’t turn them out for him willingly.)

            Why that had occurred to him, he couldn’t say, but he quickly snuffed the memory out, neatly tucked it back where it belonged. It was a stone in a long path stretched out behind him, just something he had to step over to get where he was going—wherever that might be.

            No matter—he left the captain’s cabin with a spring in his step and a smirk on his face. This was precisely the thing he needed to prove to Billy that he was not to be taken lightly; Billy would soon reconsider his preference for abstinence over the lash when he heard the captain had poured Hickey a drink.

            As for Irving—well, an opportunity would arise. Fortune would drop a chance at evening the scales into his path, she always did, all he had to do was keep his eyes sharp.


End file.
